Yet, this seems more personal. Is it because Jared’s interested in me? Was this a mistake?
Suddenly, my front door isn’t wood and paint, it’s the line I drew about opening my heart again after Auren walked out, and allowing Jared inside means breaking that promise to myself.
It’s only for the weekend. Come Monday, he’ll be gone, and everything will go back to normal.
My hand shakes as I pull out my key, and I miss the lock, the metal clacking on the plate.
Jared steps up beside me, and his fingers close around my wrist to still the tremor. “You okay?”
The warmth of his body melts into me, and his pheromones spike at our proximity, and it comes as a relief that he can’t sense when mine rise in response.
I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Instead of taking the key from me, he braces the knob with the heel of his palm so it won’t rattle and waits for me to prove how fine I really am.
I peek at him from the corner of my eye. The porch light lifts every bruise on his face into stark relief, the tape bridging his swollen nose, the purple bruises under his eyes, and the backpack hanging off one shoulder.
We’ve come this far. I can’t turn him away now.
I steady my grip, fit the key on the second try, and turn the tumbler. Yeast and cedar breathe out from the dark as the door swings open, and I reach for the switch. Light pools across the living room, laying my private life bare.
“Shoes by the mat,” I say. “Sit. I’ll get ice.”
His gaze bounces around the room, taking in the hand-crocheted throws folded along the couch, the driftwood table I carved last winter, the row of smooth wooden bowls along the mantel. Through the archway to the kitchen, the proofing box glows on the counter, reminding me I still have bread to finish.
“You can put your bag down there.” I take his prescription bag from him and point to a spot near the hallway. “I’ll show you to the guest room after dinner.”
He crouches to undo his laces, slipping off his shoes to leave by the door before he follows directions and places his backpack by the hallway. “Can I help you with dinner?”
“Focus on healing for now. Kitchen is this way.” I lead him past the living room, where the overhead pendant lights gleam off polished surfaces. “Sit there.”
He perches on a chair at the small table tucked into a corner, his shoulders hunched. Blood crusts beneath his nose despite the doctor’s cleaning, and the tape across his bridge pulls his skin tight. The bruising has darkened in the hours since the punch, spreading across his cheekbones like watercolor.
I check his splint without touching it, studying the doctor’s work. The tape runs flat across thebridge, anchoring the plastic support. No bleeding around the edges. Good.
I open the freezer and pull out an ice pack, wrapping it in a clean dish towel. “Hold this to your cheek. I’ll set a timer.”
Jared accepts the bundle, pressing it to his face with a wince. “Cold.”
I take the pain medicine from the bag, read the directions, and pour water into a carved wooden cup, aware of the way he tracks my movements. “You need to eat before taking these.” I tap the bottle with one finger. “Doctor’s orders.”
The bread in the proofing box has risen a bit above the double line, so I pull it out and shape it into a quick boule, creating the perfect surface tension and pinching the edges together through practice before I drop it into a floured banneton.
I had hoped to eat this with the soup in the slow cooker tonight, but now it will have to bake tomorrow. I cover the banneton in plastic wrap and move it to the fridge to cold ferment overnight.
Jared shifts on the stool, the ice pack dripping condensation onto the towel. “Your home is beautiful. I didn’t expect?—”
When he stops, I look over to see color creeping up his neck beneath the bruising. “Didn’t expect what?”
He gestures with his free hand. “I don’t know. So… personal, I guess. How much of all this is handmade?”
“Most of it.” I don’t say I made it with someone else in mind. “The things that matter, anyway.”
I open the cupboard for bowls, the familiar routine of feeding someone a groove my body remembers while my mind resists. “Are you allergic to anything?”
“No.” He sounds stronger now, the ice numbing the worst of the pain. “I eat everything.”
When I turn back, I find him watching me with an expression I can’t interpret.